Peach (45 page)

“Well,” said Claire, folding her arms and leaning against the car, “quite the little Sherlock Holmes, aren’t we?”

Noel shrugged. “An easy deduction, lady, but I’m more of the Philip Marlowe type.”

“Well listen, Philip Marlowe, now that we know what’s wrong, what do we do about it?”

He looked at her appreciatively. She was tall, five-nine or ten, with long graceful legs and small feet in pretty lizard
shoes that weren’t meant for kicking tyres, and she had smooth dark hair cut short and chic. She wore a red jacket and skirt and her brown eyes behind big scarlet-framed glasses were smiling at him. “We go over the road to the Pontchartrain Hotel,” he replied, “we call the garage to come and charge up your battery, and I buy you the drink of your choice.”

Claire sighed. “I do like efficiency in a man,” she said, taking her purse from the seat and slamming the door. “Lead the way, Philip Marlowe.”

She refused the drink but they had coffee instead while she told him why she was doomed to the big Chrysler wagon despite her near-sightedness and its size, making him laugh at her version of the problems of parking. She lived in a white, two storey colonial-style house in Bloomfields Hills with her husband, the Chrysler executive, and two children, Kim aged thirteen in junior high and teeth braces, and Kerry aged eleven and a beauty.

“Like her mother,” suggested Noel.

“Actually, she’s like her father. But thank you anyway, for the compliment.”

“You must have married very young,” hazarded Noel.

She eyed him quizzically. “If you want to know, I’m thirty-four,” she said. “And yes, perhaps I did marry a little too young. I’ve often thought so myself. You mustn’t take that as any sign of major miscontent,” she added with a smile, “just—well, middle-aged restlessness, I suppose. And what about you?” Claire changed the subject abruptly.

“Thirty, division manager at GL Motors. I live here in Detroit—in town.”

“Is that all?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know—all the rest. Where are you from, what did
you do before you became division manager … your wife?”

Noel reached across the table and caught hold of her hand, examining the wide gold wedding band and the large solitaire diamond engagement ring. “I can read your palm,” he said. “Nice New England girl, good family, engaged at nineteen to the up-and-coming young guy from the Ivy League college, married at twenty, a baby right away … a life of quiet domesticity in Bloomfield Hills—ladies’ lunches and literary circle meetings and dinner parties, and Christmas with all the family and lots of presents for everyone.”

Claire’s eyes met his steadily then she turned over the hand that held hers. “And I can read your palm, Philip Marlowe,” she said quietly. “I see a very lonely man.”

Noel curled his fingers, gripping her hand in his. “Maybe you’re right,” he said lightly, “I’ve never stopped to think about it.”

“Then maybe it’s time you did.” Claire stood up abruptly. “I must go. I’ll get a taxi home and have someone pick up the car for me later.” They walked together from the hotel.

“Wait,” said Noel. “I’d like to see you again.”

She eyed him carefully, bunching her red jacket under her chin with a gloved hand. “We haven’t been properly introduced,” she said finally, smiling.

“Noel,” he said. “Noel Maddox.” He scribbled his telephone number rapidly on the back of his business card. “Claire,” he said, “please telephone me.”

A taxi pulled into the kerb and she stepped in, tucking her skirt over her pretty knees as Noel waited anxiously, holding open the door.

“I’ll call,” she said, her eyes meeting his.

Noel slammed the door shut and the cab pulled away. When she turned to look at him he was watching her.

*  *  *

Noel couldn’t think where you took a married woman who was obviously known in Detroit society to make love to her, so he took her home.

“My God,” said Claire, standing in the doorway. “It’s a cross between a tomb and an airport lounge.” She advanced cautiously across the black carpet, eyeing the cold slippery leather sofas with horror. Her eyes travelled across the room to the two prints, still propped against the wall. “A plant,” she wailed, “a touch of green, a cushion—some evidence of human life.”

Noel smiled and walked to the expensive record player. Choosing an album he switched on the machine and the delicate strains of Handel’s Water Music filled the room. “How’s that?” he asked. “A little more human?”

“Oh thank God,” breathed Claire, “I was beginning to think I’d made a terrible mistake. I thought you were cold and heartless and as sharp-edged as this room.” Kicking off her expensive high-heeled shoes she wandered to the bedroom. The golden brass angels smiled serenely at her across the big black bed. She felt better. “Any man who could buy that can’t be all bad,” she said with a grin. Noel watched bemused as she peeked into his bathroom. “Mmm,” she commented, touching the striped cashmere robe. “A man of expensive tastes.” She drifted across to the compact open-plan kitchen, opening cupboards and examining their contents interestedly. “You’re a very neat man, Noel Maddox,” she said, opening the refrigerator. It contained a jar of olives, a slab of Camembert cheese, a small can of Beluga caviare and a bottle of Dom Perignon.

“No milk,” she said wonderingly, “no juice, no eggs. A man of
sophisticated
tastes.”

“I got the champagne and caviare for you,” said Noel. “I figured Philip Marlowe would have done that.”

Claire laughed. She liked him. “Glasses are in the top cupboard,” she told him, “and where’s the thin, hot toast?”

He looked at her puzzled. “For the caviare,” she told him.

Noel took down a box of crackers from the cupboard. “I thought these would do.”

Claire took the carton from him, putting it behind her on the counter. Taking off her glasses she slid her arms around his neck, looking at him. His face was lean and craggy and the bones seemed to crash forward beneath his taut skin. His black hair grew thickly and he wore it slightly too long for a young executive on the way up, and there was already a blueish hint of beard on his freshly shaven chin. Beneath the blue shirt Noel’s body looked hard and young and very tempting.

“This is all very wrong,” she whispered, “and of course I shouldn’t really be here. But nevertheless here I am. Shall we have the champagne later?”

Taking her hand, Noel led her across to the bedroom. Lying on her back she raised her skirt, inching it over her hips. “I can’t wait to undress,” she murmured, “I can’t wait for you, Philip Marlowe.”

She wore cream lace underwear and black stockings and Noel couldn’t wait either. Unzipping his pants he fumbled himself free, trembling as she touched him. “Now,” she breathed, “now, please oh please.” She cried out as he entered her, twisting her head away from his mouth into the pillows, moaning as she felt him climax. “God,” she gasped. “Oh God … I couldn’t wait for you. I’ve been dreaming about you. Erotic dreams, just like this.” She laughed, rolling over and kissing him. “I was acting out my fantasies—using you. Isn’t that terrible?”

“I don’t know,” said Noel bemused.

“Shall we have the champagne now?” Claire suggested. “Before we continue.”

Noel began to laugh. “You’re crazy,” he said. “I thought you were a nice quiet housewife from Bloomfield Hills.”

“Wait,” she warned him, laughing too, “you don’t know what we Bloomfield Hills housewives are really like. Just think—you’ll be able to write the definitive exposé.” She watched him carefully as he carried the tray with the champagne in a bucket of ice and two saucer-shaped glasses and placed it on the table beside the bed. He’d taken off his clothes in the bathroom and he wore the striped cashmere robe. His legs looked strong and muscular as he padded back again to the kitchen and returned carrying the opened can of caviare, a spoon and a box of crackers.

“Sorry,” he said holding out a cracker piled with caviare. “I’ll have the toast next time. I’ve got a lot to learn.”

He was serious and Claire looked at him in surprise. “That’s all right,” she said gently, “I’m a good teacher.”

The champagne was cold and delicious and afterwards he peeled off her black stockings and kissed her knees and her soft instep and then he kissed her breasts, lingering over them until she moaned again wanting him. And then his mouth travelled down her belly until it found what it was seeking and Claire arched her back in ecstasy to meet him. When he took her this time it was with power and control. Noel Maddox needed no teaching in making love.

Claire went to Noel’s apartment twice a week—more when she could manage it, but with two children and a husband it wasn’t easy. How much shopping could you say you needed to do in Detroit? She hadn’t really intended for things to go this far—it had been a tempting anonymous impulse the first time, something that she had needed because sometimes Lance, her husband, made her feel like she was blending into the wallpaper. Of course she understood. After fourteen years of marriage familiarity became a dangerous element. Claire would bet it caused more divorces in Bloomfield Hills than adultery or drink. She loved Lance and he loved her but he also loved his job and that created a “
ménage à trois
”. She was just balancing things out a little, that’s all.

Noel Maddox’s off-beat charm was insidious. Being with him was like being with two different people. When he talked about his work he was the steely, self-assured businessman who knew what he wanted. His ambition burned too clearly for him to hide it. But his personal life was uncharted. He’d told her only that his parents had died when he was young and that he’d had to work his way through school. There had been no time to learn about living. Just work.

Claire never went empty-handed to his apartment. She took him green growing plants—big ones in huge woven baskets to stand on the black carpet near the windows, softening the harsh view of Detroit. She bought a beautiful thick plaid rug from Scotland to throw over the cold leather sofa
and yellow and scarlet and blue cushions that picked up the colours in his Mondrian and Kandinsky prints. And she gave him bright soft towels to take away the operating-theatre sterility of his white tiled bathroom. When she brought him the pair of antique silver photograph frames, Noel just stared at her. “What am I supposed to put in there?” he asked.

“You put photographs in them,” Claire replied puzzled, “of people you love, your family, your friends …”

Noel replaced the frames in their box and gave them back to her. “I have no photographs,” he said. “You keep them.” Sometimes she thought Noel could be a little frightening.

But usually when she arrived his face lit up with pleasure. Taking her glasses from her nose he would kiss her and she’d kick off her shoes and cling to him. She’d be lost right away in his passion.

He bought her champagne and caviare and albums of his favourite music so that he could share it with her. And she bought him books on the history of art and biographies of composers and interesting new novels. “I feel like Scott Fitzgerald giving his lover a reading list,” she said, handing him her favourite Harry Launceton book,
Nectar
. Its intriguing cover showed the half-hidden curves of a woman soft and out-of-focus in peach colour and gold. “Launceton’s changed his style completely in the last few years,” she said, “since he married the de Courmont girl.”

“The de Courmont girl?”

“The French car family—you know? Peach, I think her name is. Anyhow, she certainly changed Harry Launceton for a while.”

Noel was gripping the book so tightly she could see his knuckles gleaming white. Then he placed the book carefully on the coffee table and poured her a glass of champagne. Walking to the window he stared out into the night.

Claire watched him in silence. Something was wrong but whatever it was she knew he wouldn’t tell her. He kept everything locked away in some secret compartment that she wasn’t even sure Noel himself ever opened and looked at.

“Come here,” commanded Noel roughly. He didn’t undress her as much as tear the clothes off her, in a hurry. And when he made love to her this time it was almost as anonymous as with Lance.

“I’m giving a party,” she told him afterwards as they sipped the champagne. “And I’d like you to come,” she added, biting into the toast smeared with caviare.

Noel looked at her surprised. “Is it usual for Bloomfield Hills wives to invite their lovers to their parties?”

Claire sighed. “I wouldn’t know. But it’s the sort of party that
you
need. Top men in the industry will be there—chairmen, presidents, vice-presidents, influential dealers. As you know the wheels of Motor City wouldn’t go round without those dealers. It’s they who make the sales. And, besides, it’s for charity,” she added, “a garden party in aid of the orphanage society.”

“Then I see I shall have to come.” Noel’s smile didn’t reflect what she read in his eyes.

“Look,” she said, exasperated, “I don’t know what’s wrong today, but I thought this party would be a good opportunity for you. If you’re ever going to make it to the top you’ll have to learn how to play the executive game.”